


But Never Doubt My Love

by MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale doesn't make An Effort, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Hair-pulling, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Scene: Globe Theatre 1601 (Good Omens), Vaginal Fingering, in ill advised places, is definitely a thing here, like an alley way, now with art!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23915590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: “Doubt thou the stars are fire.  Doubt that the sun doth move,” the actor playing Polonius says onstage.  Aziraphale thinks on these words.  But never doubt I love.  One of the lines of Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia.  Aziraphale sees something pass over Crowley’s features.  A specific kind of pain, deep and old.  An aching.Aziraphale shakes his head.  No, best not to think about that.  Best not to think about how his heart flutters when he sees Crowley after a long separation.  Best not to think about how every point of contact along his arm sears like a brand into him.  Best not to think about the stolen glances he keeps noticing, the waves of love radiating around them that have been building slow and steady since Rome.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 215
Collections: Ineffable First Times





	But Never Doubt My Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doorwaytoparadise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/gifts).



> Some Globe Theatre shenanigans for y'all today! I didn't intend for Crowley to have a vulva in this when I started writing it, but the further I wrote, the more sense it made. The story goes where the story goes and I am just along for the ride xD
> 
> Big big BIG thanks to Phoenix_of_Athena for the beta read and argentconflagration for the sensitivity read!
> 
> [Based on art by doorwaytoparadise](https://twitter.com/nothistoryart/status/1255602401505095683?s=20) that was posted in the Soft Omens Snuggle House server on Discord >_>
> 
> They graciously let me write a little fic based on it <3 they're writing one, too! A two for one! xD
> 
> Update: doorwaytoparadise of course did the beautiful art that inspired this, and then after reading they drew MORE and I am overwhelmed!!! The beautiful art is embedded below but also can be found on their twitter [here](https://twitter.com/nothistoryart/status/1255980684398792704?s=20)! Please for God-for Satan-for somebody's sake go show them some love over there! <3 <3

“Crowley, I simply can’t believe this!” Aziraphale says as they crest the hill overlooking the Globe Theatre. It’s clear that during Aziraphale’s time in Edinburgh Crowley had made good on his promise. Crowds filter into the theatre slowly, clearly standing room only. Street vendors shout about their wares - roasted nuts and fresh fruits - snacks to hold people over until opening time.

“Told you it was my treat, didn’t I?” Crowley says with a smirk. “Didn’t expect me to half-ass it did you?” There’s no bite to his words, no malice in them. His smirk turns to a genuine smile as he offers Aziraphale an arm.

“Well, I am very grateful, and I’m sure William is also.” Aziraphale tentatively links his arm with Crowley’s. They won’t be noticed, of course, a low level aura making them entirely uninteresting. Still, this is a bit different.

“Eh, don’t really care what Ol’ Willie Shakes thinks.” 

Crowley is pointedly not looking at Aziraphale, which is fine. It gives Aziraphale the chance to look at him, to study his features. Aziraphale has thought, in his most private moments, that Crowley has the sort of face that should be chiseled in marble. The sloping nose, the high angular cheekbones, even the crows feet that wrinkle the corners of his eyes. There’s a dusting of red on Crowley’s cheeks now, Aziraphale notes with a secret delight. 

“Come on then, angel, I saved us the good seats.” Crowley lets his dark glasses slip just a little and Aziraphale is treated to one of his favorite sights: beautiful liquid golden eyes, a slight demonic glow to them. His heart skips a beat like it always does.

“Lead the way, dear boy,” Aziraphale says softly as he gives Crowley’s arm a squeeze. Subtle enough to be a mistake, but after this long he knows that Crowley knows. There’s nowhere Aziraphale would rather be than right here: in a crowded theatre with Crowley, appreciating what the demon has done for him.

They make their way to the seats Crowley has set aside. The theatre is indeed packed, the benches are crowded to capacity. No personal space to be had here. There could be, with a hint of a miracle, but neither of them deign to do so, perfectly content to be pressed up close against each other. Aziraphale’s arm is still looped in Crowley’s. It’s nice. It’s different, but far from unwelcome.

Heaven is a nice place, in theory. In practice it is very cold, a very every-human-shaped-being-for-themselves type of thing. The love that humans seem to believe their God is made of (and, to be fair, She is) doesn’t extend to the spheres. Aziraphale has been on Earth for a very long time, around these humans and their need to touch and to express; to wear emotions on their sleeves because their time is so very, very limited that to do otherwise would be a disservice to those emotions.

Nobody touches each other in Heaven. There are no congenial pats on the back, hugs from old friends, comforting hands when one is sad. Heaven doesn’t go in for that sort of thing. And Aziraphale can only imagine that Hell is much the same, if more violent. You have to do things for yourself or they won’t happen at all. No one to really and truly rely on.

But Aziraphale has Crowley, has this Arrangement. And he’s not an idiot; he knows. He sees the signs, sees how they point to things. Even without the ability to sense it, Crowley would be obvious. Crowley does these things, these acts of service, purely to see Aziraphale smile. To make him _happy_. The thought of it makes Aziraphale’s stomach do somersaults.

They settle in as a hush falls over the crowd and the play starts. Crowley may not like the gloomy ones, but Aziraphale always sees a bit of something in them that is endearing. This human condition, this human need for love that Shakespeare captures so well. 

It strikes him, as he listens to Hamlet greeting Horatio after their long separation, that the time between his and Crowley’s partings is growing shorter. Aziraphale can’t bring himself to complain, however; he enjoys having Crowley around. Enjoys being doted on, for lack of a better word. Enjoys having someone around who cares.

Aziraphale is focused on the stage, of course; it’s only polite. But he doesn’t miss how Crowley is focused on _him_. Waiting for reactions, waiting to see if he did right by Aziraphale. He reacts as he should, shocked at the appearance of the ghost, with laughter at Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. He mimics the crowd, if only to see the smile on Crowley’s face.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move,” the actor playing Polonius says onstage. Aziraphale thinks on these words. _But never doubt I love._ One of the lines of Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia. Aziraphale sees something pass over Crowley’s features. A specific kind of pain, deep and old. An aching.

Aziraphale shakes his head. No, best not to think about that. Best not to think about how his heart flutters when he sees Crowley after a long separation. Best not to think about how every point of contact along his arm sears like a brand into him. Best not to think about the stolen glances he keeps noticing, the waves of love radiating around them that have been building slow and steady since Rome.

A hush falls over the crowd as Burbage starts to recite the soliloquy. His performance is flawless, as it always is. 

“The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, the insolence of office,” Burbage intones with all the emotion of someone ripped away from that most important to them. It feels familiar, a little on the nose. ‘Despised love’ is certainly a way to describe it.

They pass the majority of the play in silence, save for Aziraphale’s occasional outbursts. The warmth of good company and good entertainment washes over Aziraphale, wraps him up like a blanket. Here in proximity to Crowley is by far one of his favorite places to be.

They watch as Ophelia commits suicide, as she lies dead in her grave. They watch Hamlet jump in after her. Aziraphale feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. Maybe Crowley’s right about the sad ones, literary merit or not. 

Crowley is sulking next to him, which is to be expected. But he still always tags along. Always sits through the whole thing. Aziraphale knows Crowley wants to spend time with him, knows he prioritizes it. And, well, if it’s nice to be needed then it’s nice to be needed. Aziraphale doesn’t need to read any further than that.

The play ends and Aziraphale claps just as loud (if not louder) than everyone else in the theatre. They filter their way out into the streets, cobblestone glistening in the moonlight. They walk slowly, savoring the time and the stillness of night. Talking about this, that, or something else. What Aziraphale had gotten up to in Edinburgh ( _still can’t stand horses, angel_ ), how Crowley had helped Shakespeare with rewrites ( _he was going to have Hamlet kill his uncle while he was praying, didn’t even see the irony!_ ). 

Maybe it’s the moonlight, maybe it’s the stillness. Maybe Aziraphale is just high on good company. For whatever reason, he’s feeling bold. Daring, even. He wants to show Crowley how much he’s appreciated. He sees how the demon looks at him when he thinks Aziraphale isn’t looking. Crowley thinks he hides it well, but he’s obvious. Lust, at the very least. Aziraphale doesn’t dare hope for something like love, but it would be nice.

He pulls on Crowley’s arm, leading them down a winding alleyway, dark save for the moonlight. No lamplight here to guide them, just darkened windows, darker buildings, and all of the stars in the night sky. 

“Got a shortcut, angel?” Crowley asks, his sunglasses slipping down low on the bridge of his nose. His eyes are like molten gold, if Aziraphale could fashion that gold into jewelry he’d gladly take the burn of it on his skin just to be able to wear something of Crowley for even a moment.

“Something like that,” Aziraphale answers as he checks around corners, pacing and worrying at his signet ring. He shouldn’t be this nervous, not under Crowley’s gaze. But the thing that they’ve been dancing around for centuries is so close to breaking the surface and Aziraphale is tired of holding it down. 

“Quick question, if you don’t mind, dear boy, but is anyone looking?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him, curiosity evident in his features. He obliges anyway, places his fingertips to his temples, closes his eyes and concentrates on the surrounding area. A neat little parlor trick that he picked up a couple centuries back from one of the other demons. “Not that I can tell, why?”

Aziraphale dithers and fidgets, pacing back and forth just a bit. Nerves, that’s all. He remembers his own words months ago. Time to buck up. 

“Oh, sod it all,” he says before crowding Crowley against the alley wall and covering the demon’s lips with his own, fisting his hands in Crowley’s doublet to hold him steady.

Crowley lets out a surprised squeak and for a moment Aziraphale is worried that he’s overstepped. But as soon as the thoughts form he feels Crowley’s arms wrap around him and - bless it all to heaven - Crowley is kissing him back. Aziraphale lets go of the doublet and runs his hands up into Crowley’s hair. It’s softer than one might think, as smooth as silk. He presses Crowley into the wall, slotting a leg in between Crowley’s thighs as he licks into the demon’s mouth. How long has he wanted this? How long has he had to watch from a distance, this lovely demon with a ‘do not touch’ sign. With his ridiculous saunter and burnished copper hair; with his wit and his charisma and constant need to needle at Aziraphale’s nerves. With his kindness, his consideration, so unbecoming of a demon but always extended out towards Aziraphale anyway.

Aziraphale has a sudden realization that he is completely, unequivocally, and desperately in love. Sudden might be the wrong word; it’s been building for centuries. But now with his lips on Crowley’s and his hands in his hair and Crowley’s tongue in his mouth he can’t seem to put any other words on his heart besides _I love you, I love you, I love you._

“Angel, fuck’s sake,” Crowley says between gasps of air. “I don’t know what that was for but let me know so I can do it again.” And right there, in Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale sees it. Feels it. True as a blue sky, loud as a mockingbird. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Aziraphale stares into Crowley’s eyes for a moment, carding his fingers through his hair, twining and untwining it around his fingers. Crowley follows the motion like a flower leaning towards the sun. Aziraphale wonders, as his fingers slip through silken locks, what would happen…

He plunges his hand deep into Crowley’s thick red hair, gathers up and pulls. Crowley lets out a breathy gasp as Aziraphale moves his head where he wants it, licking a strip up Crowley’s throat. “Crowley, I…” Aziraphale is breathless as he whispers into the soft skin of Crowley’s neck. He feels Crowley rut against his thigh, looking for friction. It’s maddening, being able to cause this kind of reaction in him. As if Aziraphale were temptation incarnate and not Crowley. Crowley’s been tempting Aziraphale down this path for years.

A gentle hand cups Aziraphale’s cheek as Crowley stills against him. 

“Aziraphale, you don’t have to say anything. You’re just thanking me for a favor, yea?” And there it is, the plausible deniability of it. This can simply be a thank you, not a whim of Aziraphale’s traitorous heart. Crowley always makes sure he has a way out, always gives him that chance.

Aziraphale comes to a decision, with the strongest conviction he can muster as a Principality of the Lord God Almighty, that he doesn’t want a way out. Not this time. Everything he wants is right in front of him, panting against an alley wall with his arms wrapped around Aziraphale. And Crowley knows, he has to. He knows Aziraphale’s feelings and Aziraphale knows his. This is an intricate dance that they do, that they have done for centuries. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat and looking straight into Crowley’s eyes, hoping against all hope his meaning is clear. “Please, let me thank you properly.” He kisses Crowley’s temple. “Completely.” His cheek. “And thoroughly.” The final kiss lands on Crowley’s lips and elicits a small whine as Crowley ruts against his thigh.

Aziraphale grips Crowley’s hair tight, his other hand ghosting downwards to the laces of Crowley’s breeches. “Let me?” Aziraphale asks with the same look he gave Crowley a few months ago, asking for Hamlet’s success on a whim. Now he wants nothing more than to give Crowley pleasure, to show him he’s loved without being able to say the words.

“Yes,” Crowley says, capturing Aziraphale’s lips with his own again. “A thousand times, yes,” he whispers against Aziraphale’s lips, so quiet that he can barely hear him. A secret, only for Aziraphale’s ears, for his heart.

Aziraphale deftly unlaces Crowley’s breeches, his mouth still hot on the demon’s neck, grazing with his teeth, desperate for anything and everything Crowley will let him have. Aziraphale works his hand into Crowley’s breeches, finding him already wet.

“It’s easier,” Crowley whispers into his ear, answering the question Aziraphale wasn’t going to ask. “You drive me crazy, Aziraphale. Whenever I see you, I want you. Easier to hide this way. Easier to pretend.”

Aziraphale captures his lips again, one hand twined in his hair, the other slowly parting Crowley’s folds, silencing him. He runs a gentle touch along his labia to his clit, circling it with his thumb. “Hush, dearest, we can’t talk like this here.”

There’s a hurt in Crowley’s eyes, but he knows it’s true, even as he tries to dig his nails into Aziraphale’s back through his doublet. Aziraphale uses his grip in Crowley’s hair to maneuver the demon where he wants him, sucking bruises into his neck. Marks to show he was here, that this happened. 

Crowley rolls his hips against Aziraphale’s fingers as they stroke his clit, gasping harsh ragged breaths as he arches into the touch. Aziraphale kisses him again, licking into his mouth with purpose, teeth clashing together. Aziraphale hasn’t made an Effort, so to speak, but the sight of Crowley in this state of euphoria is enough to drive him crazy. Crowley is gorgeous at all times, but like this - vulnerable, open, panting out Aziraphale’s name on his breath - he’s a vision.

“I’ve got you, my darling,” Aziraphale says as he works a finger inside, keeping his thumb circling around Crowley’s clit. Crowley’s breaths draw in sharper and Aziraphale is overcome with emotion, with the knowledge that he is the reason Crowley is losing all manner of self control right now.

Crowley’s breathing grows heavier as he clenches around Aziraphale’s finger. Aziraphale captures his lips again, moaning into Crowley’s mouth as he feels Crowley’s forked tongue snake it’s way in. There’s a warmth settled in his stomach that feels like release with nowhere to go, all of his focus is centered on Crowley. On Crowley’s voice, on his breath, on his skin.

It’s too much and not enough at once as Crowley breathes his name, rolling his hips and chasing his own pleasure. It’s intoxicating, more so than any wine. Aziraphale brings in a second finger and crooks them just so, thumb still rubbing against the sweet spot. Crowley’s back arches off the wall as he clenches around Aziraphale’s fingers. Aziraphale feels a swoop in his stomach, not unlike taking flight. His eyes fall closed as the sensation carries him, like wind rushing up under his wings off the walls of Eden; it sends a shiver down his spine straight to his toes. He stumbles a bit, head falling to Crowley’s shoulder and breathing heavily. Crowley, too, is fighting to stand up at this point. 

“Angel, bloody hell,” Crowley gasps out between breaths. Aziraphale’s hand is still buried in his hair, still gripping tight. Crowley’s arms drop to his sides to better support him against the wall as Aziraphale pulls his fingers out of him. Crowley is absolutely drenched, and so are Aziraphale’s fingers. 

“Are you feeling suitably thanked, my dear?” Aziraphale says shakily, hoping Crowley can read between his words as he withdraws his hand from Crowley’s breeches. He wants more, he wants everything. But if this is all he has for now, a tryst in a back alley by the Globe, he’s going to take it as far as he can. He’s going to savor it for as long as Crowley allows him.

Crowley opens his mouth to answer, but doesn’t. Aziraphale watches his serpent eyes track the movements of his hand as he brings his fingers up to his lips. He looks Crowley right in the eyes as he takes them both into his mouth, moaning over them the way he would over oysters or a particularly good plate of baked pears. 

Aziraphale pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a pop, not breaking eye contact with Crowley. “Absolutely delectable,” he whispers, barely audible. He sees a flash of something cross Crowley’s face, looking very much like understanding.

“You know, angel, getting this to be a success was no walk in the park,” Crowley says as Aziraphale untangles the hand from his hair and sinks to his knees.

“Dreadfully difficult, I’m sure,” Aziraphale says, unlacing Crowley’s breeches the rest of the way, fighting with them every step. “Especially working with William, he’s very difficult to work with.”

“Exceedingly so,” Crowley gasps out as Aziraphale yanks his breeches down. He braces his hands against the wall, breathing heavy as Aziraphale runs his hands along his thighs.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to undersell you, dear,” Aziraphale says as he trails kisses up Crowley’s thigh. “You or your _infinite varieties._ ”

Aziraphale carefully spreads Crowley’s folds with two fingers before looking back up at the demon, waiting for the go ahead. It’s odd, Crowley staring down at him like this, but he’d gladly kneel in supplication at Crowley’s altar for the rest of his days. To sing his praises and worship his body - no matter the form it takes.

Crowley nods at him, breath stilled and eyes wide. Aziraphale grips his hips and goes in slow, a solid even pressure with his tongue along Crowley’s labia up to his clit. He hears Crowley’s breath hitch and feels his hips shudder, wanting to roll and find friction. He looks up at Crowley as he continues slow even strokes, building up the pressure, paying special attention to his clit. Crowley’s head is thrown back against the wall, one arm over his eyes. Like he can’t quite figure out what’s allowed. Aziraphale reaches with one hand to find Crowley’s and bring it to rest in his hair. The meaning is immediate as Crowley sinks both hands into blond curls, clutching for dear life as he passes his tongue over the core of him, slowly and methodically.

“Aziraphale, I-” Crowley gasps out, and Aziraphale knows he can’t let him finish that sentence, he grips Crowley’s hip tighter with one hand, working a finger of the other inside of him as he licks and sucks at Crowley’s clit. 

Crowley’s hips buck up against Aziraphale’s mouth. He moans at it, encouraging Crowley to chase a second release. Aziraphale thinks he could stay here forever, Crowley rutting against his mouth, seeking out his own pleasure.

If this is all Aziraphale can give him, if this is all that they’re allowed, he will make it worth it. Crowley grabs harder at his curls, gasping and rolling his hips. Aziraphale grips Crowley by the ass, lifting him enough to drape his legs over his shoulders, working for a better angle. 

He speeds up his ministrations, focusing on Crowley’s clit as his movement becomes more erratic, his breath more haggard. Aziraphale is drunk on him at this point, never wanting this moment to end. As if the universe can sense his thoughts, Crowley’s legs wrap around his neck and he arches off the wall again. 

“Aziraphale, don’t stop, please, don’t-” Crowley gasps out as his words turn to unintelligible stammers before he cries out voicelessly, legs locked around Aziraphale’s neck holding him steady. Aziraphale keeps his tongue moving - slow circles over Crowley’s clit, working him through it, until he feels Crowley’s hips hitch away from him. They stay there for just a moment, catching their breath before Aziraphale gently lowers Crowley’s feet back to the ground, more than a little proud of the wobble he sees in the demon’s legs. 

Aziraphale wipes his mouth, making sure Crowley sees him lick his lips as he does. He doesn’t want there to be any doubt in the demon’s mind; this was no accident, no one-off satiation of cravings. Aziraphale only truly craves one thing in this world, one being in this world.

“How about now?” Aziraphale asks, rising to his feet and offering Crowley a steadying arm. “Shall we call it paid in full?”

“Eh, suppose so,” Crowley says, feigning indifference. His eyes betray him; there’s a softness and a fondness there. They both know, but they can’t say it. Aziraphale could fall, Hell could come and collect Crowley. The only option is to ignore it and move on.

Aziraphale isn’t sure how he can do that now, now that he knows what it feels like to kiss Crowley, to feel his love wash over him, to break him apart under his hands and reform him back together with pleasure. It’s a line that Aziraphale admittedly probably shouldn’t have crossed.

But the heart wants what the heart wants. They’ve both been down here long enough for these human sensibilities and notions of love and family and home to become things that they long for.

Aziraphale offers Crowley his arm, intending to walk him home, keep him steady. Crowley stares at him for a beat before cupping both of Aziraphale’s cheeks and kissing him deeply.

“Someday, angel, do you understand?” Crowley whispers against his lips, sadness evident in his voice. “Someday, we’ll be able to…we can be….” Crowley trails off and kisses him again, a soft press of lips, like a promise.

“Someday,” Aziraphale echoes. And he believes it. Not now, not for a long time, but someday in this world there will be a place for them. He doesn’t know anything of what’s ahead of them right now. Doesn’t know about crepes and arguments in the park; about nazis or a satchel of books. Or about armageddon, and all of the things that will come with it. 

He’ll know soon enough, though; they both will, and in the aftermath of it all they’ll fall into each other’s embrace once again. Finally where they need to be, finally home. Never to doubt love again.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me on [Tumblr](http://moveslikebucky.tumblr.com) or kick it with the softness in the [Soft Omens Snuggle House Discord](https://discord.gg/QU5krqq)!


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